


Putting the Dog to Sleep

by cjtheshort



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Coma, Deaf Clint, Hospitals, Lots of regret and angst, M/M, Marriage, Medical Inaccuracies, Tony Stark Has A Heart, pet death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:16:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjtheshort/pseuds/cjtheshort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidents are common things, but some have worse consequences than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damage

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of put the Avengers movie and Fraction's Hawkeye together to form this along with my own headcanons and such. Pardon it.

The worst part of the shift from green giant to pale human is the bones. The snapping, the twisting, the shrinking; the whole ordeal is very disturbing and painful. The second worst part is how much energy it takes, its been eight years since he's been an Avenger yet he still passes out after every transformation. Not immediately and Hulk didn't have to exhaust himself completely anymore.

Now Bruce had a few minutes of consciousness before he would black out and currently he was using those few minutes to look up at his husband, a figure of purple and black racing across a rooftop.Everyone else was grouped together, why was Clint still acting like he was on a mission? Maybe it was their fight last night. Bruce needed to apologize, badly.

_"I don't know what you're so upset over, baby!" Clint spread his arms out in an open, exasperated gesture._

_"I-I just-do you like her?" Bruce couldn't stop fidgeting: crossing and uncrossing his arms, running his finger through his hair, tugging at his shirt collar, shifting foot to foot._

_"What?" Clint's face scrunched up in confusion before he quickly shook his head, stepping forward and putting his hands on his shoulders. Bruce flinched, biting his lip so he could look him in the eye calmly. "Bruce, no, I love you, okay?" He leaned down to kiss him but Bruce stepped back, the images on the screens showing his bright smiling face; muscular arm wrapped tightly, possessively, around her waist. The way they kissed so tender but desperate. It made him sick to his stomach._

_"Then what was that last night with Natasha?" Bruce asked coldly, wrapping his arms defensively around himself. Clint dropped his arms to his sides, groaning loudly as he threw his head back. This was his first spy mission in years and it was stressful and straining. All he wanted was to come home and collapse into Bruce's warm arms but instead he was waiting for him with his curls in a mess like storm clouds on the horizon._

_"It was pretending! You know that! Bruce, why can't you just accept that I love you! We've been married five years, dammit!" Clint brought up his left hand so he could tap the gold band obnoxiously. "I don't-you know what? Whatever, I'm going to bed, good night, Dr. Banner." He huffed as he stomped over the couch and threw himself down. Bruce hadn't been able to think of a come back so he just fled to their room and slammed the door before collapsing on the bed._

It was really stupid now that he thought about it. Of course Clint loved him, Bruce had to stop being so insecure and fragile. Maybe that was it, Bruce was about to ask Steve if he could call his archer down to him when an ear-splitting explosion caused them all to duck before spinning to see what just happened. Smoke was flooding the sky in thick clouds, flames dancing over the roof of the apartment building as thick chunks of roof rained down; Clint among them. Bruce only had a second to react as he felt his vision darkening and strength quickly leaving him. The only thing he could do was squeak where an agonizing scream belonged as he watched Clint plummet to earth like a costumed meteor before everything was black.

*

His eyes stung with road dust and exhaustion as he attempted to pry them apart, squinting at the ever blinding sterile light of the SHIELD medical bay. After blinking a few hard times and swallowing what little saliva he had to fix the dryness in his throat, he attempted to sit up; immediately noticing a lack of Clint curled around him and a large quantity of teammates surrounding the bed. And all in civilian wear, how long had been out?

"Where's Clint?" Bruce rasped, coughing lightly to clear it. Instead of the immediate answer of 'he's fine' or 'just down the hall, getting his ribs patched up' an uncomfortable and reluctant silence followed. He looked up, trying to meet their eyes but instead he was only met with wall focused gazes and even Thor had his head hung. "...Guys?" Suddenly he remembered what had happened; the explosion, the panic, Clint falling from a ten story building-

"He's in the hospital, Bruce." Steve spoke, eyes lifting from his focus on the floor. As bad as it sounded, having Clint in the hospital was a little of a relief. At least they knew where he was and that he was ok- "And he's not looking too well." Bruce furrowed his brow as a jolt of fear went through his chest.

"What-is he okay?" Bruce tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed to stand but Natasha stopped him, a feminine yet incredibly strong hand resting softly on his shoulder. It felt so strange, having her touch him so carefully, so kindly; but he forget his little jealous feud was one-sided. The look in her eyes made him feel that this wasn't one of those days he could drag Clint back to their apartment and nurse him to health. Fear wasn't a common thing to find those summer green eyes of hers; neither was sympathy or pain. A slow breath left Bruce's chapped lips as a heavy weight pressed against his chest. "Natasha?" He asked, voice stay even and so horribly hopeful.

"He's in a coma." She answered, her voice oddly comforting despite the message conveyed as her eyes stayed on his. "It was the fall. The doctor's aren't sure if he'll wake up." Natasha gave his shoulder a light squeeze as his jaw fell open. First, denial. Then worry, then sheer panic, followed by regret and then back to panic.

"I-I-I have to see him." Bruce was physically shaking as he pushed himself the rest of the way off the bed, immediately collapsing as his legs refused to hold his weight. "W-where is he? I have t-to see him." He stubbornly attempted to push himself up again.

"Bruce, wait, he's across town, we'll take you to him, buddy, just calm down." Tony knelt next to him, setting his hand on his back. Bruce barely resisted the urge to slap it away, instead he stilled himself and took deep, measured breaths. Once he had a hold of himself he stood up, Tony holding his waist in case his legs failed him again.  
"You okay now?" Tony asked and Bruce nodded softly.

"Please take me to see my husband."

*

"You have to understand, Dr. Banner, we barely saved him, it's amazing he's even still alive." A doctor a little too young for Bruce's liking led him down the hall, making wide gestures and even bigger facial expressions. It was a little too comforting, a little too familiar to see. "I mean yeah, his skull was fractured and he had a rib go through his lung and if-I mean when he wakes up we're not too sure he'll walk again, _but_ the point is he's breathing and alive." Dr. Collins gave him a big thumbs up and a wide smile as he stopped in front of Clint's door. The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up in obligation before going into the room.

Suddenly, he wished he hadn't come alone. It was so much worse than he had been preparing himself for. A thousand times he had seen Clint in a hospital bed with his head wrapped from surgery and various bandages and Band-Aids covering the parts of his exposed skin. Fingers wrapped neatly, left leg in a cast and propped up in a sling.  
Skin pale and ghostly due to blood loss, making the bruises stand out like ink smudges on fresh paper. It was disturbing how at home this felt, but the reality crawled up. Bruce took a few brave steps in, knees beginning to quake and a sickening clawing began in the pit of his stomach. He sank slowly into the chair beside his husband's bed, brown eyes carefully watching his face for any signs of movement in case this was some kind of really twisted joke.

But Clint's face stayed still. His eyes didn't flutter open and land on Bruce in an unfocused gaze before he smiled dizzily behind his oxygen mask. Bruce leaned forward, gingerly taking his hand, once again fighting down the disappointment bubbling in his throat when Clint didn't loll his head over to look at him with exhausted eyes. The same eyes he got when they fought. The same eyes he had last night.

"Hey, Clint." Bruce cleared his throat, scooting a little closer. "You really scared us." It was really disheartening talking to him without him being able to snark back. In fact, it didn't feel like Clint was in a coma. It felt like he was ignoring him, finally fed up with the bullshit that was last night. Bruce sighed, hanging his head. "I'm sorry. I really am. I need to stop being so insecure. You've been with me almost eight years and if you didn't really love me, you would have left. I understand that, I'm sorry." He looked up, disgusted with himself for thinking that would actually wake him up. With another sigh, he leaned back, arm stretching so he could still hold Clint's mummy-impersonating hand. "I love you."


	2. Atrophy

In the course of his fifty-three years on Earth, Bruce had learned a few things about the length of a week. In school, it was five days of hell with two days of haven. In college, it was six days of studying and Sundays with Betty. In his career; five days of work, two of research. When he was on the run days blurred together and he finally understood what they meant when by 'time is relative'. Seven days could hold a lot of things and in this case, it held souring hope, disappointment and growing anxiety.

Everyday Bruce came in as early as they would allow visitors which was around nine in the morning and he would sit next to Clint's bed, reading an article aloud and holding his hand until they would ask him to leave, about six in the afternoon. He made sure to put his hearing aids in as best he could. He couldn't stand being in their apartment without Clint there to fill it. Not to mention the most recent incident there was a fight, a stupid one they hadn't resolved yet. The first day was the roughest, the second was a little better, the third made him want to vomit from all the emotions swelling in his gut, on the fourth he had to stop reading so he could cough out the lump in his throat, by the fifth he wanted to scream and the sixth was when he asked the team to visit with him next time.

They hadn't all been gathered in his room yet, usually only one or two people stopped by. Natasha, who sat with him quietly and would make small conversation when Bruce needed a distraction or whisper assumed threats to Clint in Russian. Tony would stop by, mainly to check on Bruce but also to give Clint 'encouragement' on waking up; Steve would be with him, ever the leader and ever the friend. Thor had come once, with flowers and optimism that had since wilted.

"Hey." Steve's voice made Bruce look up from where he had been gently rolling Clint's wrist, trying to keep his joints fluid and exercised for, you know, when he woke up. "Have you eaten?" He asked as he closed the door behind him quietly. Bruce noticed everyone was being so quiet, but weren't they trying to wake him up? Maybe it was just instinct on seeing someone in a hospital bed; to let them rest.

"I had some eggs in the cafeteria." Bruce nodded, laying Clint's limp hand back down and giving it a soft pat as he stood. Seven days and he still expected Clint to pull him back down and mumbled incoherently about Bruce not leaving him here with the buzzards. "Are the other's coming?" He asked, shoving his anxious hands in his back pockets.

  
"Yeah, they'll be up soon." Steve's eyes wandered over to Clint. "His bruises are healing." He pointed out, doing his best to keep everyone focused on the positive things. Bruce looked over his shoulder to his husband, nodding. Clint's color had come back and his eyes weren't so dark and painful looking, reaching that light purple and green stage he had witnessed a million and a half times. If he was healing, he would wake up soon. Right?

"He's uh, starting to look better. Much better." Bruce looked back to Steve, smiling a soft but empty smile. He heard that Clint had been in a coma before, years before they had met, when he was just starting out in SHIELD. It lasted a week, just like this one and he had snapped back like a fresh rubber band. Fresh. That was probably the key to his recovery. Fresh bones, fresh tendons, a fresh out-look on life. When he was twenty something spring chicken and not a forty year old punching bag as Clint had put it. There was a small knock the same time Tony opened the door, peeking his head in and looking around.

"Wow, not much of a turn out." The billionaire scoffed as he stepped in, trying to bring some humor in with him. Steve gave him a disapproving look before Tony came up and pressed noisy kiss to his cheek, slinging his arm over his taller husband's shoulders. Bruce hated the envy that curled around his chest and even more he hated the fact he kind of wanted to slap Tony. Couldn't he see this was a serious thing? Couldn't he see that Bruce was barely holding it together? Flaunting his conscious husband and perfect marriage wasn't helping anything.   
"How's Coma Boy holding it up over there?" It was really getting hard not to slap him.

"Tony-" Steve huffed, looking up at the ceiling like he was looking to God for strength to deal with him.

"He's doing fine, doctors say everything is healing okay and that it's a good sign." Bruce took his glasses off so he could toy with them, also so he wouldn't have to look at Steve's sympathetic expression. His mind drifted back to the doctor, a different one from the bubbly Dr. Collins who made him feel like he was suffocating. This one was much older, with wizened eyes and a mouth that stayed a thin line of deep thought. He had give Bruce a sigh and shook his head, telling him that he wasn't going to lie, it didn't look good.

He remembered a similar man with similar words. It was at a hospital but not one for humans with beds and long hallways; one for animals with waiting rooms full of pet toys and cold steel examination tables. It was their second year of marriage, they had decided they both wanted kids and had tried their damnedest to adopt one like Steve and Tony had but...the adoption agencies weren't exactly as enthusiastic to toss a child into the man-who-the-Hulk-turned-into's arms as they were to give on to Iron Man and Captain America. But that was okay, they had Lucky. He had become Bruce's baby as quickly as he had become Clint's best friend. He could clearly remembered the look on Clint's face when he caught him in the act of murmuring baby-talk nonsense to the lovable mutt for the first time. Some kind of mix between 'aww, that's so cute' and 'what the physical hell'. Only Clint could make those kinds of expressions.

But as the years went on, Lucky got older and older much more quickly than a human child. He he had already lost an eye from when Clint saved him but soon the other eye went and last year so did his ears. But it didn't stop him from trying to wander around the apartment and beg for food and petting so they had to keep him inside the apartment and only take him out on a leash. Of course, life happens and you get a little forgetful so when one dreary morning you forget to close the door behind you as you make a trip to the corner store; your deaf-blind dog might follow you out. And into traffic.

_"Oh, God, Clint." Bruce panted, his clothes soaked from the rain pouring down outside as he stood in the packed veterinarian office. Clint looked like a haunted house, eyes wide and vacant as he stood shivering; blood staining his worn-out target shirt. "Clint, what happened?" He cupped his face, trying to get him to look at him but the archer refused, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor._

_"I didn't close the door." Clint whispered haggardly. "I didn't close the damn door." He squeezed his eyes shut, hanging his head. "It's all my fault. It's all my fault. It's all my fault."_

_Bruce clenched his jaw, forcing down the bile rising in his throat as he pulled his husband close to him, pulling in a deep breath. "It's not your fault, it's not your fault, Clint." He tried to assure him with his strained voice. Lucky was their baby, their child. Bruce would brush his fur everyday, having it trimmed shorter in the summer even though Clint argued that he would be fine. When he could still see they would play fetch, and when he only had his ears left they would play hide-and-seek around the house; and when those went they would just hold and pet him and let him know he was loved._

_"It is." Clint ground out, hands coming up to ball into fists around Bruce's shirt. "It's all my fucking fault." He wheezed out, reminding Bruce of the winds of the monsoons. A whisper among the pounding of his heart beat. Breeze among the pouring rain. Before Bruce could summon a reply, they were called in to see him. He wondered if this what what prisoners sentenced to death felt when they were walking to their execution. But it wasn't him who was going to be dying. The doctor opened the door and on the table lay Lucky, the white sheet they covered him with blotched red. Clint tightened his hold on Bruce's hand, jaw clenching tight._

_"We did everything we could. It's not looking good." The doctor gave them a sympathetic smile as he carefully pet Lucky's exposed head. "We can do more surgery but...I think the best option is to put him to-"_

_"No, no no no no no no." Clint shook his head rapidly before staring down the doctor, chest heaving with boiling determination. "He'll make it okay?" He shouted, shoving an accusing finger at the doctor. "He's tough, he can-"_   
_Clint stopped when Bruce put his hand on his shoulder. Clint snapped his head to him, mouth wide to unleash his argument but Bruce's far too somber face stopped him. The archer's shoulders dropped in defeat, in acceptance. He hung his head before nodding. "Yeah..." He rasped. "Okay."_

_They were allowed to pet him as they gave him the shot and the room was soon occupied with just the three of them as they gently stroked his head. His shallow breathing stilled and that was the first time Bruce saw Clint cry. It was ugly and brutal like school yard beatings; the sounds of his sobs as gut wrenching and sickening as earthquakes devouring a city._

_They had him cremated and didn't speak for two days. There were no words needed for that kind of suffering, that kind of healing._

Bruce cleared his throat as he came back to reality, tucking his glasses into his breast pocket so he could rub his hands together. Natasha came in with Thor who was holding more flowers even though they hadn't gotten around to throwing out his first batch. At first Bruce feared it was going to be plagued with silenced and damp conversation but somehow everyone ended up laughing. They were telling their favorite stories involving Clint and most of them were hilarious, especially if they included the archer and his near obsession with obscene trick arrows. Bruce could remember the once Steve was telling where Clint had left his quiver in the sun so when he picked it up after sparring with Natasha the putty arrowhead exploded on it's own so Bruce had to help figure out a dissolving compound.

Everyone carried on with the stories and jokes long after they had turned sour in Bruce's stomach. Instead he sat quietly in the chair, blocking out the surrounding noise as he watched his husband's face. It was still and calm, not peaceful but dismal. Of course, Clint did suffer chronic bitch face. One of the things that kept Bruce from talking to him that lifetime ago when they were just barely teammates was that he always looked like he wanted to fight you. But when he was talking he was so energetic, so full of life and humor. When he was awake he was just so damn alive. Bruce needed that again. Needed his loud laugh, the way his eyebrows could twist and turn in every direction and that smile which could easily replace the sun. Not that Bruce wanted to launch him into space but, if he had to.

He didn't notice when everyone went quiet, noticing Bruce's dire expression like he was attempting to will Clint awake. After a few more minutes of uninterrupted silence, they concluded their unspoken debate and decided to leave the two of them alone. Steve patted his shoulder, Tony gave him a talk about how he's on speed dial if Bruce needs him, Natasha gave him a quick but warm hug and Thor was obviously trying to put him in the hospital as well with his God-sized bear hug. The only thing he could give in return were nods and attempted smiles. Once it was just the two of them, just the empty air and the soft beeping of the heart rate monitor; Bruce felt like his chest had been scraped clean. Like only his lungs remained but his heart had escaped the hold of his rib cage.

"Please wake up." Bruce said once the silence became over whelming. "Please...wake up. I need you. We need you."

*

The next week was worse than the last. Bruce stopped going home altogether, if they made him leave Clint's room he would just sit in the waiting room until he could try again. Sometimes he would nap in the cafeteria or just pace the halls all night until he could be reunited with his comatose love. The nurses started letting him sleep on the little couch provided since he didn't take up much room and no one wanted to see an old man almost in tears when he was asked to go. Instead of sitting idly by he began helping, exercising Clint's legs and arms to keep fluid from building up and keep the joints supple, doing his best to keep atrophy at bay. Almost all of Clint's bruises and cuts had healed, giving Bruce the cleanest version of his husband he had ever seen.   
  
But along with the good came the bad, the way his muscles were shrinking and face becoming gaunt from lack of pizza and donuts. He didn't even look like Clint Barton anymore, he was just a man in a hospital bed. It made Bruce feel even more alienated. Two weeks without his laugh, without his voice or his jokes or little content sighs and the only thing that had been keeping the shriveling hope inside of Bruce from burning up completely was that he could still see his face. But now...he didn't even have that.

The door opened and Tony stepped in, this time without Steve. He guessed someone had to watch their son. Bruce reacted slowly, a few seconds before he looked up. He himself was in bad shape, shirt dirty and face woolly with a salt and pepper beard. Tony sighed, slinging the backpack off his shoulder and walking over to Bruce.

"Here." He held it out. "Its got some fresh clothes, put 'em on." Tony answered his questioning gaze. Slowly, Bruce got up, taking the bag and looking over his shoulder to Clint before nodding and walking to the bathroom with it. Tony sighed, running his fingers through his hand as he looked down at the archer in the bed, sitting in Bruce's still warm chair. "Hey, buddy. You gotta get up, okay? You're driving Bruce mad and remember what I said to you about hurting him? Well, you're hurting him. Bad. And since you're already in a coma I can't really put you in one so I take it all back. Just wake up, alright? We need you back. And that was really stupid what you did to land you in this mess; I know you're a hero but you should have called me over. You're the arrow guy, I'm the pyrotechnics. Got it? Stupid idiot, trying to defuse a bomb." Tony grumbled, shaking his head as he leaned back in the chair, watching Clint with pursed lips.

The bathroom door opened and Tony stood up, pulling on a smile. Bruce was wiping his down the front of the t-shirt Tony brought him; a fresh that he picked up with some strange depiction of a Barbie doll riding a tiger as it jumped through space. Tony knew what it was like to have someone you cared about in a coma, Happy had been in one. Granted, they weren't married and Tony didn't get to sit by his side and watch him wither away but either way he figured he shouldn't bring something from their house or something that had attachment to it. Except for the pants, those were Bruce's slacks.

"Out of all the things to pick." Bruce mumbled, looking up at Tony. That small light of Bruce shining through this old man who was rotting in sadness made Tony grin.

"Hey, I think it suits you. It really shows the inner you, ya know? Free spirit and all that jazz" Tony slung his over the smaller man's shoulders. "Come on, let's see what the hubbub about hospital food is." Bruce gave a reluctant glance over to Clint but nodded, following him out and into the hall.

"I think the joke is about airplane food, Tony."

*  
Once they reached the cafeteria it became apparent to Bruce that Tony was trying to hide something. Bruce let it slide, nodding along with the one sided discussion against hydraulic fracturing which he only brought up when something bad was to follow. He continued to pick at his salad before Tony's chattering was starting to push his patience.

"Alright," Bruce dropped his fork, putting his hands up as if to ward off the words from hitting his ears anymore. "What is it?" He pushed his salad aside, folding his hands over the table. Tony looked at him tiredly before sighing.

"We don't want you staying here all the time." Tony said, shoulders soft, trying to coax and not demand. "We think it would be best if you come and stay at the Tower at night, you know, just have some people around you." He shrugged.

Bruce sighed softly, looking at the table. And leave Clint? What if he woke up? He'd be alone and disoriented and what kind of husband would do that? And what if he were to...slip...away... "Sorry." Bruce looked back up at him, rubbing his hands together as his eyes started wandering the room. "I just can't. He needs me." He glanced at him, the corner of his mouth tugging into a dry smile.

Tony did that thing where he moved his jaw from left to right, the thing he did when someone prevented him from getting what he wanted. The indication he was probably going to throw a Stark sized fit. "Alright." He shrugged after a few strained seconds. "If that's what you think you need to do." He crossed his arms over his chest, obviously not happy with the decision. Bruce huffed out a breath.

"I'll be fine, really. I'm just-"

"Fine? You think you're fine?" Tony leaned forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table; making Bruce lean back in his chair and put on his 'dealing with Tony' face. "You're not fine. I asked the nurses to watch you and you're not fine, Bruce."

"Wait, you have the nurses watching me?" Bruce lifted an eyebrow before letting out a breathy laugh and looking over to the wall. Typical Tony.

"Yes, I have the nurses watching you because I'm worried, it's what friends do; they worry." Tony defended, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis.

"I don't need your stalkish mothering, I'm fine." Bruce moved to stand up but Tony grabbed his wrist, staring him in the eye.

"You're not fine." Tony said stiffly, making Bruce take a deep, soothing breath to cool the rage in his chest.

"My husband is dying, of course I'm not fine." He snapped at him, eyes going wide when he heard his own words. Clint wasn't dying, no he wasn't. He was fine, people wake up from comas all the time. Tony's jaw fell open and Bruce jerked his hand away, storming to the elevators and punching the button. For once in their friendship, Tony didn't come after him; he let him walk away.

*

Back in the gloomy safety of Clint's hospital room, Bruce was trying to ignore the shifting of Hulk in his mind. Having the Hulk in your head was like a stomach ache; constant and unsettling. Some times sharp pain, sometimes just dull discomfort. When he shifted forward to see everything Bruce was seeing, it was like someone pressing their thumbs into his eyes. Hulk really wanted to see Clint, to see him and hold him and try to yell him awake. But Bruce wouldn't let him, reminding him that this was a hospital and he couldn't come out right now. Maybe when Clint woke up.

But, futz, did he mess up telling Tony that Clint was dying. Bruce swallowed the stale taste in his mouth. The reasonable side of Bruce knew that he might not wake up, the ever hopeful side refused to believe such nonsense. Hulk shifted again, trying to force his way out but Bruce was much stronger. Maybe not in this state, but usually. Another thing Clint had brought into his life was peace, believe it or not. He helped Bruce made amends with Hulk and in turn that made life on the team a whole lot easier; not having to constantly fight over control or just fighting against each other. His mind became a place of work and functioning instead of anger and feuding.

Clint was both their balance. And with him not there to make Bruce smile or sooth Hulk, it was quickly slipping back into old times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google isn't as helpful as I thought.


	3. Contracts

Three weeks is a long time to spend haunting the halls of a hospital but Bruce was no longer counting the days. He was counting them in how many times Tony visited, trying to coax him into coming to the Tower and how many times Steve would have to pull him out the door before their shouting and arguing could shatter their friendship. Natasha hadn't come to visit in a while, a mission Steve said. They were all still doing missions, Bruce saw it on the news when he would turn on the TV. And every time there was always the same thing ticker-taping along the bottom of the screen: _'Hawkeye comatose, Hulk AWOL?'_  . Thankfully this hospital was practically owned by SHIELD so they had managed to keep the avenging archer's locations secret. But maybe they needed it to be public, maybe they needed it to be loud. Maybe they shoulder let paparazzi riot in the halls and have fans wailing outside. Something much louder than his and Tony's yelling.

All the little thoughts of home had left him. He no longer hoped he hadn't left the toaster plugged in, or the TV on or the sink possibly running or wondering if he should ask someone to water his house plants. Instead he fretted over Clint's hearing aids, making sure they were tuned to the right volume and that the batteries were working so Clint could hear his begging and his pleading and his deal making. He even lost it a few times and began shouting; raving like a mad man and demanding that Clint get his sorry ass out of the bed. Of course, he couldn't stay angry for long, not with the Hulk desperately clawing every confine in Bruce's mind. Bruce could barely sleep, if he drifted too far out Hulk would be able to take over. That couldn't happen no matter how badly Hulk wanted it to. They were starting to loath each other again.

Today when Tony and Steve visited, they had brought their son with them. Peter was not a quiet kid, especially not around the team. But he was a very smart kid and even in his young age he could feel the damp weight in the room. He padded over to the bed, standing on his tip-toes so he could look at his uncle. Bruce could see a little of expectancy in his eyes, waiting for Clint to snap up in bed and scare him before picking him up and tickling him but no such thing happened. The small boy looked over his shoulder to his dads before looking to Bruce, eyes questioning. Apparently Steve and Tony had only told their son Uncle Clint was sick, just not what kind of sick. Every time he came to visit 'sick' Uncle Clint he was awake.

"He's very tired, Peter." Bruce tugged on a smile, his voice rough from over use. The little boy looked back to Clint before walking over to Bruce and climbing in his lap. 

 

"When's he gonna get up?" Peter asked as he took Bruce's glasses off and inspected them. Bruce handled his glasses when he was nervous and apparently Peter had learned to mimic the behavior. With a soft sigh, Bruce looked over to his husband before swallowing. Steve stepped forward, wiling to intervene and make up an excuse to take Peter outside but Bruce answered.

"Soon." He nodded to himself, looking at the boy in his lap. "Very soon." Bruce tugged on another smile for him and Peter just looked over at Clint, still expecting him to sit up, just as Bruce had at the beginning of this terrible journey. he climbed out of his uncle's lap and pulled the little plastic dog from his pocket, slipping it under Clint's curled hand. A little tan Labrador Retriever that Clint had told him looked like a dog he used to have. That felt like years ago but it must have been less than a month.

  Steve picked his son up, promising ice cream with sprinkles and cherries, leaving Tony and Bruce in a silent duel. The air had a different feel from all the fights before; usually Tony came in passive-aggressive before putting up his fists but today there was a displacing calm before the storm. In fact, Tony wasn't even looking at him as much as he was glaring daggers into Clint's unconscious form. Bruce waited a few more moments before breaking the air.

"...I don't think that will wake him up, I already tried." Bruce didn't know why he was trying to pad the anticipated heavy blow with humor, usually it just made things worse. Tony looked over to him, his face unusually still and sober. The genius looked to the ground before pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and walking over to him. Bruce slipped his smudge glasses on and unfolded it, face slowly going slack the further he read. 

"What is this?" Bruce looked up to him, hoping he hadn't read it right. Tony crossed his arms over his chest, eyes flicking over to Clint as if he couldn't look at Bruce to deliver the news.

"It's a waver he signed. About comatose states and being brain dead. It's against his wishes to stay on life-support longer than a month." Tony worked his jaw, taking a deep breath and looking at Bruce. A devastated Bruce, with eyebrows high and jaw hanging low. He stayed like that for a second before shaking his head, snapping his jaw shut. 

"This isn't recent, it-it's not working if it's not recent, I know the rules." Bruce folded the paper back, holding it up for Tony to take. Tony didn't move, his eyes staying steady but it was obvious his throat was burning from the news it would have to bare.

"They have to renew their signature every two years. And he did." Tony clenched his jaw as he forced himself to keep his eyes on Bruce. The words settled in his stomach like Mentos in Diet Coke; making Bruce want to jump up and spew anger of the hottest temperature and venom of the harshest breed. Instead, he clapped his hand over his mouth, turning his head away so Tony couldn't see his face. He swallowed repeatedly, keeping the nauseating lump in his throat at bay and doing his best to remember all that new age crap about finding his center and deep breathing, deep breathing.

"S-s-so what? He has, what, a week?" Bruce wrapped his arms tightly around himself as he doubled over, ready to vomit all the emotions churning in his stomach. Tony bit his lip and nodded, hanging his head. It killed him, physically killed him, to see Bruce like this. But he wanted to break the news, not some stuffy SHIELD agent. 

"Yeah. A week from today." Tony answered, squeezing his eyes shut when he heard a soft, chocked sob come from Bruce. It might have been quieter than a cat's footstep but it rang like church bells in Tony's head. Bruce brought his hands up to tightly press his head together, almost physically preventing the Other Guy from tearing free from his confines with the desire to smash, smash, smash.

"...I can't let him die here." Bruce whispered, voice like wet paper. Tony slowly knelt next to his chair, hand resting on his back. "Tony...please, let me bring him home. Do something, I want him home." He sounded so defeated. So accepting. It made Tony want to scream. 

"Don't worry, big guy. You can take him home. Alright? Don't worry." He rubbed his hand over his friend's back before softly patting him and standing up. "I'll go get your paperwork." Tony said before reluctantly close the door, hand staying on the handle before it fell limp. Why the hell was this happening? All the stuff Bruce had already been through, all the good he had done and now this? It wasn't right. 

*

_"I can't believe you jumped through a window." Bruce huffed, picking glass out of his friend's extremely muscular arms. He tried to make the blush out to be some form of irritation._

_"I was just doing my job." Clint shrugged with one shoulder, being very stoic through the whole ordeal. If Bruce was a SHIELD doctor he was have been raising hell and Bruce knew this. Maybe he just trusted him but part of him wished hopelessly that Clint liked him back. But who could like a hermit scientist with a monster in his head?_

_"You could have gotten yourself killed, Clint." He sighed again, pulling out the last piece of glass and starting the bandage his upper arms._

_"I promise I won't die, okay?" Clint's voice was light and joking but when Bruce looked up there was something serious in those wild blue eyes. Bruce paused before looking down and resuming his work._

_"You better not or Hulk will pissed." Bruce mumbled and Clint chuckled the little laugh he always did when Bruce said a 'swear' word. "I will be too." He risked, glancing up at him. Clint stilled, staying quiet until Bruce started scraping an apology together._

_"Wouldn't dream of upsetting you, Doc." Clint spoke, his voice warm and honest._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway over.  
> And very short.


End file.
